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Outside, the wind carried the scent of pine and frost. Danger pressed close. But here, in this fragile sanctuary, I kept vigil over the woman who had undone me, who had turned enemy into ally, and ally into something far more dangerous.

CHAPTER 43

LILY

Iwoke to the sound of August's steady breathing, slow and even. For a moment, I lay listening. The camp stirred softly beyond the canvas: muffled voices, the crackle of rekindled fire, the soft footfalls of early risers moving about with care. Life carried on, hushed and watchful.

My head was clearer than it had the night before, though my bone-deep exhaustion clung to my limbs like a second skin. The nightmares had been mercifully brief, scattered by August's presence next to me.

I sat up carefully, not wanting to wake him. His face was peaceful in sleep. The hard edges of command, the haunted shadows—all smoothed away, leaving a man who looked younger, almost vulnerable. It struck me then that this might be the first time I’d seen him truly at rest.

The illusion fractured as soon as I glanced toward the tent flap. The air outside carried tension like smoke—subtle but inescapable. We were refugees. Ysella was gone. Time was running out.

I slipped on my boots and dress and eased into the morning. Mist clung to the trees that ringed the clearing, beading on spiderwebs strung like silver thread. The Weavers moved quietly through camp, their nods carrying both relief that I was upright and the grief that shadowed us all.

I drew a deep breath of cold air, sharper than expected. The grime still clung to my skin. I needed water. I needed space.

“Lily?” Mira approached, probably having seen me sniff my own armpits. “There's a stream just beyond those trees—it feeds from a waterfall. Some of the others have been using it for washing. It's. . . private.”

I smiled gratefully. “Thank you. That sounds perfect.”

The path through the trees was narrow but well-worn. I could hear the sound of water growing louder as I walked, and soon the trees opened onto a small clearing dominated by a crystalline pool fed by a waterfall that tumbled down moss-covered rocks. It was breathtaking—and more importantly, it was empty.

I knelt at the water’s edge, the moss soft beneath my palms. The pool mirrored the pale morning light. The waterfall broke the surface in a rush that sent ripples fanning outward. Cool mist kissed my face as I unlaced my boots and tugged them off, followed by stockings that clung, damp with sweat and dirt.

I glanced down at my muddied skirts, the hem stained with earth. They’d never be clean again. With a sharp exhale, I dragged them over my body, letting the ruined fabric pool at my feet like shed skin.

The thin white chemise clung to my curves, translucent where the mist had already begun to kiss my skin. The air bit cold against my bare arms, raising gooseflesh.

I stepped deeper into the pool. The water rose to my waist, then my ribs, until the chill stole the ache from my muscles. I tilted my head back, letting the spray from the falls cascade through my hair, washing away not just grime but the careful mask I'd worn for days.

The forest was quiet save for the cascade and the slow splash of my movements. For the first time in days, I allowed myself to breathe—really breathe—without waiting for the next blow to fall.

And then⁠—

A twig snapped.

I spun, water spilling off my body in crystalline sheets, and found August frozen at the treeline. The dappled light painted him in gold and shadow, and his eyes—God, his eyes—met mine with an impact that stole the breath from my lungs.

For a heartbeat that stretched like eternity, he devoured the sight of me. His gaze traced the water droplets clinging to my throat, the way my chemise had gone nearly sheer, the wild tangle of my hair. I watched him fight it—his jaw clenching, his hands flexing like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for me. Then reality crashed back, and he dropped his eyes as if the sight of me burned.

But I'd seen it. That flash of pure, unguarded hunger.

“You weren't in the tent,” he said.

“I'm fine,” I assured him. “I just needed some air. And honestly, I needed to wash.”

His eyes flicked to the water again, helpless, and I watched his throat work as he swallowed hard. The careful control he'd maintained for days was fracturing, and I could see each crack like lightning across a dark sky.

“Oh. I should. . . I'll leave you to⁠—”

“Stay.” The word escaped before I could cage it, raw and wanting and entirely too honest. August's pupils dilated, his breathing stuttering to a stop. Heat flooded my cheeks, but I didn't take it back. Couldn't. “I mean, you probably need to wash too. And it's safer if we're together.”

It was a flimsy excuse, and we both knew it. The camp was secure, hidden deep in the forest that answered to the Weavers. But August nodded anyway, though he remained rooted by the tree line.

The silence stretched between us, warm and weighted. And in that stillness, an idea took root.

“I’ve been thinking maybe experiencing the Weave for yourself would make you more comfortable. Make you realize it’s not what your father has taught you.”